What’s on my mind? The COVID-19 pandemic. Like most people who follow the rules, we never stray outside the bedroom-bathroom-kitchen triangle. The French call this menage à trois. Ours lives are similar, minus the sex.
We’ve made the necessary adjustments, even ordering groceries online. I was happy with “no contact” delivery until I realized no one will believe me next winter, when I can finally tell a real-life store manager that on the day I received the $7 plastic-boxed salad mix I ordered, slimy green liquid swished at the bottom of the mix, which was past its expiry date.
In future, I’m tempted to risk death by hitting the grocery store at 7 a.m., masked and latexed. Seniors get priority shopping at that hour, before the swarm of sweaty shoppers storms the gates.
All those wheelies and walkers are too slow for me. As a lifesaving measure, I intend to hold my breath as I shop. My plan is to smash right past those older people (some of them, younger than I am), racing through the aisles as I toss toilet paper, bleach, and other enticing treats into my cart.
The goal: Blast through the check-out in 7 min. flat, beating the world record for most Groc Shop items crammed into a cart. Not to mention beating the world record for breath-holding for a female over 70.
All those wheelies and walkers are too slow for me. As a lifesaving measure, I intend to hold my breath as I shop. My plan is to smash right past those older people (some of them, younger than I am), racing through the aisles as I toss toilet paper, bleach, and other enticing treats into my cart.
The goal: Blast through the check-out in 7 min. flat, beating the world record for most Groc Shop items crammed into a cart. Not to mention beating the world record for breath-holding for a female over 70.
It’s lonely, being in lock-down. I’ve been thinking of making sourdough bread as a healthy way to get around social distancing. Sourdough bread needs a live-culture starter, so I could make one, train it to wave “Hi!” as I open the fridge, and engage in light banter. It would be like having “company” at our house … Someone new to talk to.
With no slight intended to Himself, I’m so desperate to see another human face that I wouldn’t care if our mask-wearing butcher looks scarily like the Lone Ranger channeling a bank robber. Times are tough and everyone’s cutting back: I just hope Silver isn’t on “special” at the meat counter.
Himself is starting to look like Einstein, in the hair department. I’d talk about the brains department, but he’d divorce me. I keep suggesting I should cut his hair. “Which one?” he asks, because he won’t let me cut them all.
The last time I cut his hair, Himself wore a baseball cap for two weeks. I guess he didn’t like the way the sun bounced off his scalp after I finished. I tell him he’s lucky to even have a scalp, the way he trembled as I trimmed.
The last time I cut his hair, Himself wore a baseball cap for two weeks. I guess he didn’t like the way the sun bounced off his scalp after I finished. I tell him he’s lucky to even have a scalp, the way he trembled as I trimmed.
Himself and I celebrated our 10th anniversary last month. I suggested we go to a fancy restaurant, but all we did was stay home in “lock-down” and eat ground beef for dinner.
This being a religious holiday and all, I’ve fashioned a little rabbit from ground beef. We’ve even given it a name: Easter Dinner.
© Nicole Parton, 2020
